


Handwritten

by Battery_operated



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Implied Relationship, M/M, Written high on sleep deprivation, sadboi alastor tries to cope, universe where Angel gets redeemed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22120768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Battery_operated/pseuds/Battery_operated
Summary: Alastor imagines Angel must be lonely in heaven, he writes to keep him company.A series of letters addressed to Angel.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 110
Kudos: 305





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The letter is written in tall, elegant penmanship. It appears to be slightly trodden over with small, inky hoofprints.

Dear Angel,

I am writing these letters to you as a form of… recommended therapy. Charlie convinced me into such a ridiculous practice for its alleged therapeutic effects. Seeing as I'm writing to a person who has little chance of ever reading this, I suppose it's more of a journal than anything else.

Plenty of things have changed since you left so there's an abundance to drabble on about, but let's start with something simple, shall we? Fat Nuggets has most certainly changed, and that seems to be as good a topic as any to begin on.

With all the time I spent watching you tow them around the hotel in your arms I scarcely thought they nor their inbred ilk would ever be bound to grow much bigger. Of course they ended up doing just that to the unpleasant surprise of the hotel staff, and have become quite a handful. A seven hundred pound handful to be completely accurate.

They're still a darling to have around, just an ever so slightly bigger one.

If I have to tell, then I'd say the biggest lost of their new size is that they no longer fit into the custom bed you had made for them, but little stops Nuggets from trying. The pig is still quite fond of resting on the flattened remains of that ratty old thing.

Being the size they are now and I hardly think you could fit them into a purse of any size regardless of will or determination anytime soon. Thankfully, no matter how big they get it seem they will always have a soft spot for you. Despite still being a tiny thing at the time, it was a team effort on the hotel staff's behalf to remove Nuggets from your room within your first few weeks gone. A lesson was learned from the ordeal though, being nipped by Nuggets most certainly isn't something to be taken lightly. Just like their owner, they aren't to be underestimated.

Nifty and Fat Nuggets get along just fine nowadays and it's a change of pace I'm sure you'd be glad to hear. I'd never thought I'd live to see the day the two stopped butting heads over the messes Nuggets was prone to leaving all over the hotel. Not much has changed in that aspect, aside from the size of said messes, but they seem to have worked out their differences. They're quite the odd pair now; it isn't uncommon to see Nifty riding around the hotel mounted on Nuggets' back whenever I take the lig for visits nor for her to feed them leftover table scraps. It could easily be argued that she would be capable of much faster travel on her own two feet or that allowing a literal pig around eating areas isn't the best idea, but I would never ruin such a dear friendship.

Part of this sudden growth spurt may or may not be of my own fault. I've grown used to feeding them the bones and mangled corpses that remain leftover from my hunts due to the fact that pigs happen to be excellent trash disposers. Of course I know you'd make a fuss over such drastic dietary changes, but let it never be said that the pig eats poorly. I truly do like to think I spoil them all the same in your absence.

They live with me in the radio tower now, although it was definitely a large adjustment upon moving them in. I actually had to temporarily move them back into the hotel whilst I had the radio tower pig-proofed after they successfully managed to chew through one set too many of important wires. Hopefully my mysterious period of week long radio silence while i had them repaired will forever remain just that; a mystery.

It was nice at first, having fairly quiet company whilst I worked, but of course with growth spurts had come with many additional unsavory changes I learned soon after welcoming Fat Nuggets into my abode. Mainly; the humping.

With the stamina the swine possessed they sure would have made you proud, I feel it's only appropriate to add.

Of course I deemed such behavior in my own home unacceptable, so please find it in your heart to forgive me for drawing such a harsh line. A quick and painless trip to the vet took resolved the majority of the problem. However it wasn't without a few stink eyes and some vengeful behavior from Fat Nuggets after the fact, however sentient they may be.

But of course, even the afterlife is still a cruel mistress and my solution apparently hadn't come quick enough. I'm not exactly sure when it happened or how they gained enough leeway to escape the radio tower. Perhaps I had gotten too careless on a walk and let them out of my sight a little too long. Either way, a week before the scheduled trip to the vet's office, I was generously gifted with a pile of piglets underneath my office desk. Twelve to be exact.

Had I been a sensible person, which I most certainly was before meeting you, they would have immediately been seized and prepared on a dinner plate. Of course I couldn't bring myself to do such a thing without vivid memory of the chastising I would have received from you had you still been here. So for the time being, I'm caretaker to thirteen pigs.

I̶ ̶p̶r̶a̶y̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶l̶u̶c̶i̶f̶e̶r̶ ̶n̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶p̶e̶t̶i̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶c̶a̶t̶c̶h̶e̶s̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶, I̶'̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶j̶o̶k̶e̶ ̶a̶m̶o̶n̶g̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶l̶o̶r̶d̶s̶.̶

For the most part the chew toys are small and manageable and entertain themselves by running amuck around my office. They live a life carefree and are unburdened by any threat of the slaughterhouse.

I would never admit this aloud or to any other person because, if I'm realistic, then you are never coming back and are never bound to read these, but it's almost...nice, having them around. Caring for so many gives me something to do and gives me purpose. Caring for another living being almost fills the gaping hole in you left in my life.

H̶e̶l̶l̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶g̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶m̶e̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶I̶ ̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶d̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶o̶m̶e̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶p̶l̶e̶t̶e̶l̶y̶ ̶m̶a̶d̶ ̶p̶i̶g̶ ̶h̶o̶a̶r̶d̶e̶r̶.̶

Of course my heart isn't easily tricked seeing as cleaning up behind a hoard of pigs hasn't taken the place of your affection shenanigans. But I've lost you and your voice and your warmth and all of your idiot buffoonery so maybe taking care of... pigs (however ridiculous that may sound) helps me cope with that.

But I will not degrade myself to the point of ranting on about my own sorrow, and I have to go. It's around the time I corral the piglets into a well secured pen so as they don't interfere with my upcoming broadcast. I'll leave this letter here on my desk to allow the ink to dry, but with twelve tiny sets of hooves and teeth running around that hardly know any better I can not ensure the safety of anything that isn't solid metal and not nailed to the floor. Forgive me if this letter isn't in pristine condition i̶f̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶r̶e̶c̶e̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ when you receive it.

Love, your new swine father, Alastor


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a poorly drawn doodle of Angel and Molly holding hands at the top of the letter, alongside a lipstick kiss print. 
> 
> It's pink berry blast, Molly's favorite shade.

Dear Angel,

Your sister is doing well.

I hope the statement doesn't weigh too heavily on your conscious, but she hadn't been left in the best shape after you left. Hardly any shape at all actually.

She was happy for you of course, but that didn't do much to save her from the depressive slump she fell into in the weeks following your absence. It was a chaotic time, one of joy and surprise and perhaps just a little bit of resentment, that we scarcely noticed that she'd disappeared for a while. Your ascendance was being televised and Charlie was busy securing new deals with other overlords interested in the hotel's success. We were so occupied attempting to quell and house the new surge of residents that no one realized she'd slipped away in the mist of all the mayham. Once we did, it had already became a challenge for anyone to contact her.

At the time I'd been so enraptured with my own sorrow that I hardly cared when your sister vanished. I regret that now. Knowing that we both were going through a similar kind of grief and yet I being too selfish to offer comfort even for some in return. Her loss must have been much harder than mine also, to suddenly be without someone who's been by her side since birth. Yet there I was, being selfish. W̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶e̶l̶s̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶̶ n̶e̶w̶?̶

She disappeared in a fashion that seemed more fit for a radio drama than for reality. Gone without a trace. Her penthouse empty, hellphone cut off, and no leads. Your family couldn't find her nor could her manager. Her fans were quite livid that she was missing her shows, and a nearly pentagram wide search was conducted. She shares that with you. The ability to make anyone simply care about her presence. Or absence.

I'd love to say that in some grand show of fate that I was the one who managed to find her and drag her out of her isolation, in a poetic manner, bonding over our shared loss. But this is hell, and things such as fate and destiny have long since abandoned us. So that wasn't the case. I'm ashamed to admit I might have been in no better state than her at the time being.

But Molly was found eventually, or rather she showed up, having dragged herself to the hotel in a pitiful state. Charlie welcomed her in a heartbeat and everyone knew better than to ask her where'd she'd been. She was ushered through the hotel's doors and in the blink of an eye, life resumed for Molly.

She's a star patient of the hotel now, making leaps and bounds in progress everyday. I hope you truly don't take this the wrong way but she really is a saint in comparison to you, though I'd never have you any other way, and easily became the resident hotel sweetheart. She's the hotel's new poster child in your place and has done wonders gor the place's reputation. She still suffers from the occasional setbacks and I've had my fair share of frisking her due to suspected drug related charges. She's all the more cheeky when, on special occasions, I allow her to slip through with a suspicious baggie or two. Like brother like sister I suppose, you two truly are twins.

Still, she works towards the goal of seeing you again in a fashion that is truly admirable. Completely willing to leave behind whatever friends and family she has here without so much as a doubt. She thinks she owes it to you. She berates herself for not being there when you were taken and I have not yet found the words to explain to her that life would have continued all the same. Her presence wouldn't have changed anything, nor relieved her of precieved regrets. It was hard for me to be there as you were taken and dragged to those pearly gates.

Molly's a peach and reminds me of you in a number of ways, but her stubbornness is an especially shared trait. It could be considered a sin or a virtue that once she sets her mind on something, there's little hope of deterring her. Such stubbornness came with it's hassles in the start, namely in her determination to have Fat Nuggets. Eventually the custody debate over the pig was settled with no small amount of patience in all of it's absurdity. She gets Nuggets on weekends and holidays, but she still haggles for how many of the piglets she can pry from my ownership.

One thing I couldn't change her mind on, was her insistence for me to meet your family. She said it was only fit for her to introduce me to them in your place. Obviously, she said, someone so important to you needed to be introduced to the family.

My heart fluttered when she said that. Although I'd never dare flatter myself by exaggerating my importance in your life, but I can't help but hope it's true. Being valued by you is a privilege I'd surely bare my neck for.

All I have to say is that your family sure is… numerous. Cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents all seem to have been apart of the trade, spanning generations. It was a bit overwhelming at first, meeting all of them and remembering names between smothering hugs. I was an only child myself, you know.

You weren't too close to any of them, were you? The minute I arrived people were crowding around me and chirping questions left and right about you, myself, and our relationship. A nosey bunch they were, and now I see clearly where you got the trait from. They wanted to know everything about you and how exactly you managed to worm your way into heaven. They scarcely knew a thing about you and it was almost pitiful. They thought your favorite color was green, can you imagine?

But from them I did learn little tidbits about your life when you were alive and heard enough anecdotes to write a hefty book with. I suppose it is a mercyful thing you aren't here with all the information I've gathered about you from your childhood, prime for blackmail. According to one of your various aunts you appeared to your eighteenth birthday party with a face full of caked makeup, shame you hardly had a clue how to apply it at the time. No one dared to say a word to your face at the time but behind your back some cousins still tease you about it to this day.

I couldn't help but notice your father and brother skulking on the sidelines during the gathering whilst Molly paraded me around like I was the hope diamond. I eventually did get to talk to them when they managed to corner me by myself at the tail end of the event. They seemed sorry? No, maybe ashamed.

Of course they were still the prideful bastards you described them as. Their words were muttered as they spoke some apologies as if I was the one they needed to make it up to and I guess that'll be the best anyone will get out of them. They rambled on about offering their support to me and to never doubt coming to them for help like in some reality a powerful overlord ever actually need it. A part of me prefers to stay shallow minded and believe it's all and effort to save face as some sort of final confession. Another, much more hopeful part believed it and the warm look in his eye when your father called me his son-in-law.

It was nearing what would be the holiday season on earth and I'd gotten a fair share of invitations from your family members to come to such celebrations and Molly doesn't seem keen on allowing me to skip thanksgiving. It seemed to be and obvious sign that I'd been initiated.

It's nice to be somewhat apart of a family again. Having grown up with it being only me and my mother I don't happen to be used to the constant thrum of relatives, but the change is just as welcome, more welcomed than solitude. They don't appear to recognize me as a black sheep, daring to treat me like kin rather than a murderous entity.

The whole ordeal made me quite miss my own mother and how she busied me around the kitchen peeling vegetables whilst she cooked. Would you be so kind as to keep her company up there? If mine is anything to go by, although it doesn't even begin to compare, you'd love her cooking.

Meeting your family was only one of the many adventures Molly's coaxed me out of my office for. Seeing as you're gone she's taken it upon herself to be the one dragging me about on odd escapades. With how quickly I bore I rarely turn down an offer of cheap entertainment, but some of your sister's stunts accomplish the feat of making me idol the idea of a quiet afternoon. But still I have yet to reject a single one of her propositions, and I don't think I can. I believe we both need a healthy dose of reckless, terrifying, and childish fun in our lives.

But we can't often afford to go have ill-planned ventures through hell, Molly's a surprisingly busy woman between shows and publicity stunts and I myself am often trapped by paperwork and maintenance of my own territory. She makes due nonetheless, always attempting to have my company at least once a week, whether on shopping trips or simply joining for tea in the radio tower.

She has a fondness for me she didn't have before, fretting over me and my long work hours like an old hen. But it's perfectly normal have her tell it, seeing as you are no longer here to protect me from my self-destructive tendencies it's her job to make sure her dearest brother-in -law doesn't overwork himself.

I… still can't find it in my heart to mention to anyone that we never were engaged, let alone married. A̶n̶ ̶a̶w̶f̶u̶l̶ ̶r̶e̶g̶r̶e̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶m̶i̶n̶e̶.̶ Please try to find it in yourself to forgive me and my white lies to your family, if only so I can pretend.

I try to return the favor and care for your sister as best I can because Molly is a hypocrite and is just as prone to burning herself out as I am. I drop off homemade in her hotel room as often as I dare, along with giving her daily t̶h̶r̶e̶a̶t̶s̶ reminders that having at least eight hours of sleep isn't a choice. A ritual it's become between us.

She's settled into my life just as firmly and stubbornly as you and even if I had a chance of being rid of her my mind struggles to create an picture of what life would be like without her now. Funny considering I'm living in the after image of your departure.

But she's doing well, or at least better than I am objectively. She has an ability to look on the brighter side of things that I can't help but see as a bit ridiculous. A while agao we spoke and, as it often does, the conversation dragged back to you. And you know what? She was simply happy that her older brother was free from the dangers of exterminations. 

A̶s̶ ̶i̶f̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶s̶a̶f̶e̶ ̶f̶r̶o̶m̶ ̶e̶x̶t̶e̶r̶m̶i̶n̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶h̶e̶l̶l̶.̶ ̶H̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶m̶e̶.̶

The train of though was silly and childish and utterly... Molly. I would have no different from her. She's a ray of sunshine penetrating the depths of hell, illuminating even my blackened, crusted soul.

She has a potential for change that I severely lack, one that I often catch myself envying. But I am happy that at least one of us has a chance of seeing you again. I'm grateful that she has such a thing nonetheless, because I can't imagine what the world would have done to someone so soft and gentle and sweet without it. I can see why you adored her so and you have my oath that I'll try to look after her the best I can. She looks forward to seeing you again and she can't do that if she isn't around. After all, it's the least I can do for my sister-in-law.

Molly is every bit as mischievous as you and, as would be expected, she is quite handsy and is liable to sneak around and rummage through my office whenever she comes over for tea. I plan to stash this at the bottom of the locked drawer I keep Nuggets treats in, and I hope that'll be enough to keep it away from prying eyes.

Love, your "husband", a newly initiated member of the spider mafia, Alastor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than expected. Oof. I'll try to stick to posting two chapters a week but no promises. Enjoy?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paper smells of ozone and has a static charge.

Dear Angel,

If I am ever unfortunate enough to fall victim to an extermination someday, have it be told that I never liked Vox.

Call it a hunch, but from the day I met him I was wholly aware that the two of us were never going to get along. He'd fallen into hell some few decades after I did, crawling out of the same circle too. I would have most likely never noticed his presence if he didn't immediately pose a threat to my status upon his arrival. Vox caused more than a ruckus in hell as he monopolized the digital industry, uprooting my life fairly well in the process. I had already found it in myself to dislike him long before ever seeing him, a hate fed by things heard about him through the grapevine. I failed to be surprised by the foul man attached to the name once I finally did meet him.

What do you see when you look at me, Angel? It's not a trick question I promise, for you it'll even be easy. You'll say you see a bastard; a snarky, arrogant, and narrow minded bastard. But you'll say it with a cloyingly sweet fondness in your voice that makes it hard to stay angry at you.

Well, I see the same exact thing when I look at Vox, minus all the endearment of such traits. I see him the exact same way you see me, just not through the rose tinted lenses of a lover. He's snarky, arrogant, and narrow minded, the same me, and the only difference you'll see between us is the perspective from which you view. Me a friend, and Vox a foe.

I've hated Vox for years now and, for all intents and purposes, I planned to do so until I had the pleasure of blessing him with a second death. I hold grudges easily, and the plot was simply. But like any sensible plan I seem to make recently, that didn't come into fruition.

It's not particularly easy to pinpoint the exact moment that my plan fell to ruins, but I believe it was when I decided to gather your personal belongings from Valentino's studio. Or maybe the minute the idea for such an errand formed in my head. Either way, the second I crossed the threshold and into Val's studio of gaudy reds and pinks, I was already too far gone.

A beeline to your dressing room and back is what I had planned, but of course because I planned it, it could never have been that easy.

I attempted to slip in unnoticed, brushing by the receptionist and into the long, narrow hallways. The plan was, if everything went well, I'd be long gone before Valentino ever knew I'd encroached on his territory.

But only within minutes of entering, a group of scantily dressed workers descended on my form and swept me away. It was a flurry of red-faced confusion as they spewed out prices and lewd offers and dug their nails into any sense of my own personal space. Granted, I could have easily torn them asunder or just vanished through a portal, but forgive me for not coming up with obvious ideas like those while flailing in a crowd of prostitutes.

It didn't last long thankfully. Suddenly I heard a whistle and a few sharp commands barked out behind me and finally the workers receded. But with one problem being solved, another swiftly replaced it, so it was only fate's plan that my savior had been Valentino himself. I was barely a few steps into the studio and my plan was already torn apart and bloody.

The interaction was mercifully short against all odds. Valentino apologized on behalf of his employees' behavior and I hurriedly stated my purpose before being off. It was a miracle honestly, showing up in another overlord's territory unannounced is often reason for a scuffle at the very least. So caught up in relief I didn't even realize how unusual it was that Val hadn't been keen on patronizing me.

I brushed myself off, and did my very best to carry on with the charred remains of my plan afterwards.

Your room was exactly as I would have expected. Pink from carpet to ceiling, miscellaneous sex toys thrown about, and a absolute mess. I didn't spend long looking at it and set to work straight away. Everything was thrown into unmarked boxes, with the plan being to carefully sort through them in the comfort of my own home.

Just when I had nearly cleared the room and the end was in sight, I heard a knock on the door before it creaked open. I couldn't say I was surprised that I'd been interrupted, but just that Vox happened to be the last person I expected to be behind that door. When I saw the sickly blue-green glow of his screen I made the foolish mistake of swearing that things couldn't possibly get worse, and the universe took that as a challenge.

For a while it had been normal conversation between us, forced formalities and tasteful insults. It was nice, I dare say, to talk to Vox as if nothing had changed. You were gone and everything else in my life was turned upside down, strange and unfamiliar, but here Vox was, largely unchanged. I was refreshing knowing what to expect from the interaction, trusting him to not pity me for my lost but instead to torment me about it while I already had fully formed retorts ready to fire back. I could have just sat there all day with us just slighting each other, pretending that when it was over that I'd go home and complain about it to you before going to sleep in a bed that you still occupied. It was a vision easily kept until he offhandedly mentioned that he was looking into becoming a sponsor of the hotel.

In an instant, the illusion was broken I was fully aware that you were gone and that if Charlie succeeded in striking a deal with Vox, an opportunity she couldn't afford to pass up, it would be salt on an open wound. I snapped. I had been snatched out of my dreamworld and felt lonely and bitter and worthless without you, and I couldn't stand the idea of Vox having a reason to linger around the hotel, mocking me.

In Vox's defence, he seemed genuinely surprised by my reaction. For a moment he looked to be reeling back, ready to shoot off a barbed comment, but then he stopped. He paused and considered me for a while before speaking.

"Talk to me when you're ready" was all he said, sending a card fluttering to the ground before turning heel and promptly disappearing.

That card spent the better part of a month sitting on my office desk being quietly regarded, as I didn't have it in myself to throw it out. It was a simple white card with an address and date on it, and the less I could ignore it as the date drew closer. It was completely reasonable to be wary of going the location- Vox isn't above petty tactics like ambush. This is hell, no one is. But my interest was already caught.

I went despite my self preservation skills having a seizure, I wouldn't be writing this if I hadn't. I've found that since I have no one to go home to anymore, I've held my life in significantly less regard. But I do hope this doesn't worry you, I'm still alive aren't I?

The destination was a park on the edge of Vox's territory.

He had been sitting there on a bench waiting with a smug grin that was the only thing able to make me regret coming. He patting the space beside him in a beckoning way and I figured that if I was already in his clutches, taking a seat couldn't damn me any more.

We sat for a while in silence that wasn't entirely uncomfortable. And then he asked me why I came.

"Curiosity" is what I said, and despite how true I thought it to be, it still felt like a lie when played by my tongue. We talked, about small insignificant things for a while. No hostilities. No hatred. We talked about the weather and exterminations and annoyances, and it all felt irritating. One of the few things, few people, I'd expected to stay the same, had gone and changed for whatever reason. I trusted that I'd always be able to treat Vox like a despised enemy, but here I was, fumbling around to make small talk with him. 

I am completely aware of the fact that I'm a man whose changed very little throughout my existence, prided myself on it actually. Prided myself on the rare ability to resist change. The rest of the world shifted and warped and transformed yet I always found ways to remain static. 

I learned early that change was a cruel thing, it's what left me without a father growing up and riddled my mother with illness. Forced me to forgo my own childhood in order to keep my mother from the brink of death. It kneaded my soft, pliable edges to fit whatever job description I took to put dinner on the table that night. And then it took you.

My views on change don't differ now and I highly doubt they ever will. In my eyes it will forever stay a nasty, unnecessary thing. But who knows, that might just change as well.

But whether I hate change in the near future or become one of the idiotic saints who praise it, I've come to terms with the realization that it can never be totally evaded. So that day, sitting on a bench chatting with my dearest enemy, I decided to change. Switch up my tactics you could say.

I will not bore you with the details of what took place then, but I struck a deal with Vox. I figured that if we were both going to be the primary sponsors of the hotel, we might as well get along. An alliance of sorts was necessary, and to my infinite surprise, he accepted.

He said it was what he planned to do when he invited me to meet him, in a self-satisfied tone with his shit-eating grin. He thought that if he could simply carve out a moment to talk to me without any venom between the two of us, that something good could come out of it. When he saw me at Valentino's studio acting completely out of character, he took the opportunity. I found it embarrassing to have it pointed out that my misery was so blatantly written across my person. But still, it was cheery to see someone saw my grief in such an optimistic light.

We're friends now I suppose, or at least anyone who had the pleasure of seeing us making idle talk would assume as much. I use the word friendship with a grain of salt, it's dangerous to use such… strong terms so loosely in hell. The two of us are allies or, at the very least, not at each other's throats anymore. Just one more person to add the flurry of people who've forced their way into my life.

Under his insistence I now begrudgingly have a hellphone, and believe me when I say it's a topic I fought him on. It's an irritating little device that I've hardly figured out the mechanics of, and is probably the most modern thing I own. Other than for communication I prefer not to use the thing, not that I'm not capable of doing such, but just because I'm aware Vox's spying capabilities with the technology in hell

It's to Molly's infinite glee, because she's been pressuring me to get one for the longest. She's content now that she can contact me at any time. While I'm working, entertaining, or relaxing, I can always count on having at least fourteen unread messages from her just checking in on me. And while it is… uncomfortable to be contactable at all times I will admit it makes planning meetings with her much easier. It's not all bad, after all I now have a source which has Molly's affections on tap 24/7. In exchange, since I only saw it fair, Vox is now in possession of a brand new radio.

Abusing his status as "friends" right out the gate, Vox only saw it fit to start bringing me to the yearly conventions held between all of the overlords that occur after exterminations. Which also happen to be the same ones I've tried so hard to avoid since I've gained my status as an overlord. Needless drama, I brushed them off as, but thankfully they aren't as bad as expected. Enjoyable even.

I was extremely surprised to find them more akin to a chatty business meeting than anything else. From what I've heard, it was quickly put in place after human souls began to gain power in hell as a way of preserving the peace, a tradition going back further than even the oldest overlords care to remember. Rumor has it even Lucifer drops by every century or so. With a strict rule against violence and creating contracts between parties within the weeks following and prior to the gatherings to ease tension, it's almost comparable to a gaggle of old gossiping housewives. It's entertaining and a well needed change of scenery.

Most of the overlords are set to stay amongst themselves their own cliques and I've apparently become a part of Vox's alongside Valentino and Velvet. Talk of business, hierarchy, and territories are the main focus of the meeting, all sprinkled over with thinly veiled threats thrown between groups not so fond of each other. Hiding behind the no violence rule, many take the opportunity to toss around flat out insults that would be cause for a fight otherwise.

I'm no coward but I'll admit that I used the rule to put to rest some… issues I maintained with Valentino. It just happened to be that, since your departure, all I've seen of Val has been moping, as if you weren't easily replaced in terms of profit. Like he couldn't find another no name whore to make popular and rake in just as much money as you. Almost as if he missed you. Like he had the right to miss you after all he's done. Even the thought lied nearly rancid in my head at the time.

I believed he had no right to mourn or miss you after treating you deporably for satan knows how long. And then the fact that he had the audacity to brood in front of me- well it was enough to make me lose my temper.

So there where I knew that he couldn't just leave or ignore me, I confronted him. 

I don't know when he started replying to my accusations but suddenly I was aware that we were both yelling. It went on for a while due to the fact that, urged on by plenty of bored overlords eager to put their noses where they didn't belong, we had no shortage of instigators. My eyes were moist and my pride was dying a slow death yet I kept going, trying to relieve the heat that boiled in my stomach, so much worse than the sharp pangs and constant ache of hunger. I snapped at Valentino, if not for you than for myself. Because, if we're being honest, then I know that you're redeemed and at peace and have no need for pointless revenge. Fighting Val was a futile and entirely selfish endeavor to put my own anger to rest. 

When it finally came to an end, the table and my carefully crafted persona laid in ruins. Our audience though, were polite enough to clap. Without my own fury to fuel me, I felt the cold tendrils of apathy wrapping around me, and I was grateful for it. Indifference clouded my mind and gave me enough respite to allow me ponder the implications of having an elaborate breakdown in front of such an influential crowd another day.

The meeting, to my vast shock, carried on without a hitch afterwards, although I was too tired to pay much mind. Vox was kind enough to later inform me that it had not been the first time a quarrel like ours had occurred mid-meeting, and that they're quite common actually. I look forward to more meetings ahead where I can relish in such drama, content to not be at the center of it.

Valentino and I have since come to the unspoken decision to cut our losses and agree to our differences. I still don't like him or understand him and his godforsaken entitlement, but I've accepted the fact that I don't need to. We're in hell and everyone's here for a reason, asking why is trivial.

We've learned the ability to tolerate each other, or at least peacefully coexist while Vox runs referee between us if nothing else. You still happen to be a sore topic the two of us tend to avoid in conversation, but most other subjects we dance around, managing formilites and even being friendly at times, throwing in the odd quip or two. There are even times when we speak where I can almost believe that, perhaps in another life where we weren't such terrible people, we would have gotten along just fine.

H̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶s̶ ̶r̶e̶p̶l̶a̶c̶e̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶c̶o̶u̶r̶s̶e̶,̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶i̶n̶e̶v̶i̶t̶a̶b̶l̶e̶.̶ ̶H̶e̶r̶ ̶n̶a̶m̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶G̶w̶e̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶r̶e̶a̶t̶s̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶b̶e̶t̶t̶e̶r̶,̶ ̶I̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶.̶ ̶H̶e̶'̶s̶ ̶l̶e̶a̶r̶n̶i̶n̶g̶,̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶a̶m̶e̶.

As for Vox? All I can say is that he's had no delay in the process of becoming a parasite since he's earned the title of ally and friend. 

I was quite taken aback by how quickly he accustomed himself to the radio tower without my permission, taking it upon himself to lounge about there whether welcomed or not. It irked me quite a bit at the start, his unexpected presence. It was just a tad bit startling to come back from running errands all day to see my flat already occupied. Seeing as he is often loitering around Valentino's establishment I'm hardly sure what I expected. 

Fat Nuggets and the piglets seem to tolerate his presence, and if there's anything I've learned in these last few years, it is to trust their sense of judgement. Once Vox began to to make himself a welcomed guest in my home I worried it was for nefarious purposes, but Nuggets just sniffed his shoe before plopping down at his feet. I trust Nuggets and whatever sixth sense hell has blessed them with to keep an eye on Vox and the place while I'm gone. In the meantime, I believe I've made it clear to him that my ownership of thirteen pigs was to stay between us.

He's nearly unable to spend much time at all in his own studio because the sheer amount of attempts on his life that frequently happen there annoy him and interrupts business, so he prefers to stay in Velvet or Valentino's studios when he can. I poked fun at him a bit but I can't help but be a bit jealous. Only the occasional young and stupid lesser demon who actually believes that they have a chance in hell ever tries to sneak into the radio tower. Most are quickly taken care of by Nuggets.

As a person who dearly values his privacy I haven't been as uncomfortable with the situation as I should be. Vox and I are quite similar actually, he's quiet and tidy and works long hours also so this semi cohabitation with him has been easy. He never stays long enough to make a real annoyance of himself, with his visits ranging from every few days to every few months. I always know when he's been here though, the place is always neatened up a bit more than I left it and smells of electricity. Since he's made himself a guest I've taken note to be careful when interacting with anything metal, lest I get shocked.

I'm still a newcomer to this close knit group those three have formed, still an outsider. They often decide to share each other's company without me and have inside jokes amongst themselves. It truly is hard to view them as the powerful overlords they are when I know they behave more like a ragtag bunch of childhood friends when left alone together to their own devices. It gives me a yearning feeling.

I never had the opportunity to go to school actually, I kept my studies at home to more easily support my mother. But I do remember sitting by the open window everyday when I was little to hear the ruckus of the nearest school letting out. The sounds of dozens upon dozens of children talking and playing all meshed together came drifting over the garden wall, and I drank it up. I read in books about the close bonds and friendships children formed in school, and the tad bit unrealistic adventures they had there too. For a while, when I was a rosy cheeked child and my glasses were still too big for my head, I was enamored by the idea. The thoughts of playing mock battles with sticks and making mud pies were much more alluring than helping my mother tend to the garden and running to town on errands.

I grew out of it eventually, replaced it with a forced contentment for my solitude and an unhealthy work ethic. Exchanged any desire for human company with ambition to strive futher in the field of radio, and, eventually, murder. And things became a lot easier after I stopped dreaming.

But hopes and dreams are parasitic things, you know? You'll push them out of your heart and they'll hang onto your ribcage. I was never successful of fully ridding myself of mines.

I feel those same repressed desires whenever I sit down with those three to entertain their needless prattle and maybe Velvet cracks a good enough joke to pry a genuine chuckle or two from me. Or whenever I come back to the radio tower, only recently deprived of Vox's presence, to find a still piping hot mug of coffee waiting for me at my office desk next to an immaculate stack of files that hadn't been organized before I left. Black and unsweetened, how I like it. I feel such childish fervor coil around the hole in my chest where my shriveled heart lies, purring like a kitten. And I think "is this what actual friendship feels like?"

If loving you was a feeling comparable to heartburn, immersive and scorching, then this is like… indigestion. Similar, but not quite as intense or direct, an overly full feeling of being acknowledged and regarded. Of not being forgotten.

The entire process of being friends I've found, is a delicate art. One I believe myself to have too many sharp edges for. It was different when it came to Charlie, one of the other few people I can call a friend. I can hardly count our relationship as true friendship seeing as it mainly consists of Charlie forcing her companionship upon me, I never had much say in the matter. I never cared about her feelings and thoughts of me, I simply was, and she became friends with me despite it. I never even had to try because Charlie was just that kind of person, she'd befriend a brick wall if you put her up to it.

It's different with Vox and Valentino and Velvet. They have an unspoken respect for each other and boundaries and form enticate conversations without ever speaking a word. Lingering eye contact or a brush of hands are just a few words in a non verbal dictionary I'm not sure I'll ever understand. The art of making friends is just one I'm grossly under educated about, it was never one I needed, alive or in hell. But I'll learn, I have to. Hell is too crowded and there's only so many people who you can look over your shoulder at at once.

I hope you don't have to worry about such little things in heaven, and that you're able to rest easy without foe. You've had a hard life and a harder afterlife, we really shouldn't be too selfish about your absence. It's well earned.

And you're probably worrying about me at this very moment and that fact that I'm down here all by myself because of course you are. That's simply the sort of person you are towards your loved ones. I am doing well, or rather better than I was. I'm changing for the better I think. I am still most certainly nowhere near being a saint, and may as well never will be. But I'm different, and maybe that's just as good.

Love Vex, because apparently Vox, Valentino, Velvet, and Vex rolls off the tongue better than Vox, Valentino, Velvet, and Alastor.

P.S. Vox also has decided a fun nickname for me would be "walkie talkie" which I believe to be a few paces funnier than Bambi, although I'd never admit that to him. I think it's time you stepped your game up with silly pet names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Here we have some excessive monologuing with a side of attempted character development, trust me I hate it too. This chapter took some time and I'm still not happy with it so constructive criticism is welcomed. Sorry guys.
> 
> Also, Vox, Valentino, and Velvet are basically mean girls incarnate in my headcanon so no, no one can convince me that they wouldn't force Alastor to change his name to fit the "v" theme of the group.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paper is crinkled from drops of moisture in certain areas, with the penmanship becoming increasingly shaky in some portions of the letter. The words of the last paragraph seem to tremble on the page.

Dear Angel,

If you don't mind enlightening me, what exactly is life in heaven like? I always had the notion that if Hell is just a dystopia from an amateur novel, then maybe Heaven is just the opposite.

Not to be cliche, but tell me, up there do you soar over clouds with a pair of white wings on your back and a golden halo hovering over your head? Do you still have your monstrous form or are you human once again? If Hell is scorching in temperature then. It only makes sense that Heaven would frigid, suspended in all those ice cold clouds. It's a sight I can't help but be curious about, especially because it's one I figure I'll never see. Forgive me if my limited knowledge makes me appear ignorant.

From all the hymns and praise I've heard spoken about Heaven in the pews of my church I'm led to believe that it's quite beautiful. And yes, I went to church when I was alive, however surprising that might be. Although, seeing as where I ended up, I don't think all those wasted sundays did much for me.

Had it been left to me I'd never dare insult God in all of his hypocrisy by setting foot in such a holy building. Throughout my childhood and what parts of my adulthood she was alive for, it was my mother, bless her soul, who chided me into going. Mothers just seem to know everything, so maybe she saw something dark in me before I did. No matter how ill she felt at the start of every week, she'd make sure the both of us were prim and proper to attend church those mornings. To this day I still appreciate her futile attempts to save me from my own corrupt fate, though at the time I'd been mature, but still impudent and impatient child unwilling to sit still over a matter so pointless.

I̶…̶ ̶m̶i̶s̶s̶ ̶m̶y̶ ̶m̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶.

There are few things I'm certain about, but one is my belief that she's up there with you. She was a gentle sweetheart of a woman in life, who did her best to breed as much kindness as she could into that wicked world, and I pray she's been repaid for it in death. Although I'd be lying if I said I don't fear that she'd be ashamed if she had a clue where I am, and who've I become. Not that she doesn't have every right to be.

Have you met her up there? You always said with how I praise and ramble on about her that you'd be honored to meet her one day. She'd love you without a doubt, she always wanted me to bring someone home. From my childhood to her death her only wish was for me to have someone when she was gone, because she was a smart woman and knew she wasn't going to be bound to the world for much longer. Friend or lover, male or female hardly mattered to her she had often said pinching my cheeks with clammy, feverish hands, she just wanted someone to keep me out of trouble and from tangling myself too deep in my own head.

It wasn't something I achieved in life but I know she'd be happy for me all the same. I can imagine her even now, gushing over finally having a son in law to cook and fuss over.

How is your mother, Angel? Is she still that picture perfect example of beauty you so vividly described her to me as? Still all warm smiles and flour stained aprons? I'm sure that, if anything, you're at least happy to have her cooking back around. I don't have much to go off, but if Molly's personality truly favors her as much as you claimed it does, I have reason to believe she's up there making the angels jealous.

I think our mothers would get along well, though I know it's a pipe dream to think of us all together. But still, what a happy family the bunch of us would make.

I hope your mother doesn't see you any differently for your time spent in hell, that she's fond of all your colorful stories, and that you're still her little angel. I hope she's okay with having me as a son in law.

If not, I'll take it as no big insult. I've long since come to terms with my existence and realized that, despite my narcissistic ways, maybe I'm not the best person to have ever lived. I'm sure any sound mother who's right between the ears would fret over her child if his choice of suitor was a bloodthirsty cannibal.

And, as much as it makes my heart squeeze and coil in unfamiliar ways, I do pray you've found someone better up there. Someone who knows how to love wholly and selflessly. Maybe just an average john who'd be a pleasure to bring home to your mother.

No, no, an average john would never do though. You deserve someone who truly notices you the first time he lays eyes on you. Someone who trips over his coat tails trying to impress you and isn't afraid to make himself look like a fool for your affections. Someone who shines bright enough to even hope to hold a candle to you.

And if you find him, when you find him, I have some advice for him. I'd beg him not to be frustrated with you and your ability to blow entire paychecks on clothes and shoes because you are a star and much deserve the right attire to shine like one. I'd make sure he knew that your favorite flowers are dandelions because of how they're able grow through cracks regardless of sun or rain, strong and versatile just like you. And that you don't bat an eye at the rarer, exotic flowers, delicate and needing to be carefully kept. And most of all, I'd tell him to never be scared to dance with you, even though he may have all the grace of a newborn calf with sixteen left feet because every moment spent with you is worth the price of embarrassment.

And when you find this perfect man, because you deserve no less than perfect, try not to forget me. I beg you to remember what time we had together, however brief, and to cherish it. We may have grown apart, but we've still grown. It's best to not forget where you've come from.

While I pray that it's better for you up there, the selfish part of me hopes that some aspects simply cannot compare to hell. I don't think it could rival some of the company you've obtained while in Hell. The holidays up there might be wonderful, but they can't be the same without Husk's spiked eggnog and Nifty's hot chocolate. And I doubt that a holiday can be much of a holiday without Charlie's decor and enthusiasm. I hope Heaven's hospitable but that hell is home.

Down here, although I know it's silly, I worry about you. I worry how heaven treats you. Up there I'm sure they can't begin to know how hard you worked to correct your flaws, and that it wasn't simply an overnight process. I hope they know it wasn't as simple as getting on your knees to pray, and that they know they don't have an inkling of an idea about the amount of tears and messy sheets and awkward confrontations that made your redemption possible. They should know that you deserve a place in heaven more than any saint there. You've had quite the rough afterlife, having literally been to hell and back.

Still I can't help but worry at night that you're despised there. That they whisper behind your back and stick their noses up when you walk by. I worry they treat you no better than Hell did when no one thought of you as nothing more than a cheap whore, and that they gather around to gawk at you like your a freak show who fought tooth and nail from the fiery pits of hell for their viewing pleasure. I'm willing to climb to Heaven myself if they dare call you a monster.

But I'm not there with you and so I haven't the slightest clue what they call you in Heaven, but down here they call you Hell's angel.

It can be rightfully said that you left Hell in quite a state of shock and disarray with your ascendance. Dropped jaws rained all over Hell as the event was televised. It was impossible for a damned soul to change is what most believed to be true, or what they told themselves to feel better when they didn't try. But then someone had gone and done it, shattering the pretty little lie that sat on it's shelf and forcing people to realize that they no longer had an excuse.

Demons and sinners alike snorted at the idea of the hotel, scared it was doing what they never had the guts to attempt. Or maybe because they thought it was hilarious and misguided at best, as I definitely thought so. I don't know if you've ever heard the phrase during your time in Hell, but down here an idiom for a pointless task is comparing it to trying to redeem a sinner. And I'm led to believe it's a very outdated saying that's bound to change soon enough.

You set in motion a wave of shock that rippled through all nine circles, and gained attention from every corner of the pentagram. The topic may not seem particularly interesting to you, having never been one for politics, but your redemption shook the very foundation of Hell, challenging ideas that hadn't changed since they were formed. People were no longer able to sleep soundly thinking of Hell as a prison, oppressive and inescapable. There was a key, they knew now, they simply needed to come to terms that it took effort to find.

There was actually a period of time where many were in denial, desperately trying to write it off as an elaborate stunt for the hotel to gain followers. So in more ways than one, Hell in it's entirety was split.

In your wake many fumbled around with the concept of should sinners be redeemed. Some of the more religious, more self riguous folk claimed that being cast here was a punishment for sinners to endure until the end of time as they wallowed in their self loathing. Others jumped at the chance to change. It made itself such a controversial topic that Lucifer himself took a stance.

I trust it's obvious what side of the fence he fell on, unable to sit by and just allow so many of his subjects to slip through his fingers. Or perhaps he was jealous, being one of the few truly incapable of leaving this wasteland. He got off of his high chair to call the sheer thought of leaving ridiculous. He went so far as to attempt to shut down the hotel once he realized it was capable of achieving it's desired task. A toy, he thought it was when he gifted it to Charlie, for the sake of placating his daughter and nothing more. A toy that now proved too dangerous, too useful.

When he came to the hotel for the purpose of sweeping Charlie up to send her back to the palace and beat some "proper" etiquette into her, I admit that, despite how out of character it was for me, I wasn't aware that staying uninvolved was an option. I greeted him at the door and lingered about him for the entirity of his visit with the desperate, vain, stupid hope of intimidating him into reconsidering without risking a fight in the process. A fight that had the potential to leave me in a state not much better than ground meat

I still cannot figure out how to put into words the sheer stupidity that my idea was rooted in. Attempting to threaten the king of Hell himself. But I suppose not many of my actions nowadays possess much rhythm or reason.

And to my surprise, Husk was the first one to aid me… then Vaggie, and Nifty too. We hardly were much, and certainly not threatening to a near god, but we still tried. And I like to think it was us, all rallied around him like a hoard of mice boldly, foolishly, nipping at a cat's paws that persuaded him to leave, when in reality it was most likely his decision to abandon a lost cause. But who am I to deprive myself of my dreams? No matter the cause, he left. 

Not before disowning Charlie and stripping her status as heir to the throne and princess of hell, but those are the small losses. At the moment I don't think it would have mattered if he declared her mortal born right then and there. It most certainly didn't matter to Charlie.

All that mattered to her was the fact that your entry into heaven sparked a flame of hope in Hell amongst sinners, and she was determined to kindle it.

Afterall, if Lucifer was truly that hard-pressed about losing his precious subjects, then perhaps he'd put in the effort to try and make hell a paradise in it's own right. Maybe he'd realize no one would truly want to leave then. Maybe the reason denied Charlie of her throne was because he feared she'd do just that.

Having no more royal responsibilities, Charlie took it upon herself to become more deeply invested in the hotel, and with good cause. Your redemption caused an unbelievably massive surge in it's popularity, and no longer as just the butt of a joke. Charlie was ecstatic as we began to gain more coverage from media outlets which were actually seriously considering the hotel this time around.

Being quite the icon around Hell, you were the obvious choice to be a poster child for the hotel.

The media of Hell are erratic things, always searching for the next big trend and what'll keep viewers attention for the longest. They switch between subjects so fast it's hard for anything to stay relevant for hardly more than a second. Even during the rare cases when the hotel did draw eyes, even as cheap comedy, it never lasted long. We gratefully credit you with putting us into the media's spotlight for over half a year.

Anyone who had the pleasure of being oblivious to the hotel's existence previously weren't allowed the comfort anymore, as I happily assured it was broadcasted Hell-wide. Not even by the first extermination in your absence, we'd gained so much interest that a waiting list needed to be made. Although try not to fret, I assured that your sister didn't have to wait a moment for entry into the hotel when she arrived.

Of course with so many new residents the hotel was overdue for an expansion to house them all. It actually worked out quite beautifully, the number of donations coming in from all over swelled our budget considerably to allow for the costs. We had enough to do some renovations too. It was time we had those old, squeaky floorboards pulled up and dusty carpets and peeling wallpaper replaced with more tasteful additions. Afterall, there was only so much Nifty could do for the hotel.

It had been a series of work actually, all of it tiring. The first round of expansions bumped the room count of the hotel from a total of 120 rooms to 256 without hardly putting a dent in our donations. And then from there to 315 still with plenty of change to spare. Charlie and I debated the purchase of a sister building, but have decided to hold off until a reliable way to redeem sinners is found. It's best that we don't bite off more than we can chew in the long run.

With so many people looking into the hotel it was also essential for more staff members to be hired to handle the workload. Our income allowed for the purchase of actual therapists, janitors, chefs and more. All so that if a sinner isn't redeemed, their stay was at the very least comfortable. I'll have to apologize that you had to go without such luxuries during your stay, being the guinea pig for the entire hotel.

It took a while, and a noticeable amount of smooth talk, but I was finally able to convince Charlie to charge a relatively "small" entry fee to help cover the costs of maintenance and ensure our profits don't run dry. I have to say I didn't present the idea to her as such, but rather as a way to separate the sinners who are serious about redemption from those who are not, but it was all to the same effect. We make it perfectly clear to our incoming residents that redemption is a slow hill to climb, one that will take multiple years, and thus it is a program that will be paid for in annual intervals.

The hotel has become a different, nearly unrecognizable environment in light of all these changes. But maybe that's just because of all the different faces and new shenanigans.

There are a slew of new personalities running about the hotel now, trailing chaos in their path, and definitely more people than we've ever had occupy the hotel before. With Charlie being too kind, Vaggie being too harsh, and Nifty and Husk simply not caring as long as no one made a mess or disturbed them, I've found myself being the one put in charge of running interference between these destructive forces. I find myself ran ragged after a day of doing damage control, but it still is entertaining, if not fulfilling work.

The bond between the original staff of the hotel has changed in a way I can't really describe. We're not as close anymore, you could say and be true. Charlie works day and night as the owner of the hotel and Vaggie is often preoccupied running the hotel's counseling and therapy programs. Husk and Nifty are now busy overseeing and training a hoard of newly employed bartenders and housekeepers respectively and I myself am busy between working the hotel, managing my own territory, and outside relations. Yet somehow, we've never been closer.

Yes we are all worn and tired at the end of each long day, but it's customary for the lot of us to be piled up in Charlie's office away from rowdy residents by the end of the night. Whether playing cards or doing our own respective tasks in preparation for the next day, it's done in silent acknowledgment of the others' presence. After a while it just became easier to keep their company, comfortable even. It just… stopped being an aspect of life I actively thought about because their presence came to me so naturally, I find myself forgetting that they're even there at times. The rag-tag bunch broke into my life easily and, dare I say, fit it perfectly.

Yet don't let this fool you into thinking you aren't missed. Our dynamic has changed with a gaping hole where you once were. Having been the brightest personality around, your absence is no less noticeable than Hell suddenly turning cold.

For a while after you left it was obvious that no one had quite processed the event yet. We attempted, try as we might, to go on with our lives, ignoring the lingering sense of wrongness. What followed were months full of one too many cups of coffee being made by habit and shouts to adjacent rooms for someone who was no longer there. Soon we graduated to comforting each other with soft coos and murmurs of reassurance that you were in a better place, a second funeral you could say. But you are far from dead to us.

It took us a while to realize the fact that your departure was to be considered a success, and not something to be mourned. It was the completion of a goal which had been several years in the process. We saw it fit to create an anniversary to commemorate it.

For most of hell it's a conflicted date. Some are in favor of celebrating you and what should be considered the biggest breakthrough in Hell's history, others much prefer to go about their day, refusing to acknowledge anything important had taken place. You manage to be just as controversial of a subject in your absence as you were in your presence.

Hell is a fickle thing, always changing and shifting, and it's views forever differ. Don't be downcast if you lose hell's favor, which you eventually will as life goes on and time wears away at the thin fabric of memory and newer, younger generations of sinners and demons alike take for granted the ability to go to Heaven, unknowing that the option of redemption wasn't always one held disposable to Hell's inhabitants. You will soon fall out of Hell's favor, yes of course, because it is inevitable. But even upon the edge of time's grasp know that I will stand, defiant, always in admiration of you.

For even when you fail to be Hell's angel any longer, you'll always be mine.

Love a jaded, yet still all too adoring soul, Alastor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addressing a few things here:
> 
> 1) Bare with me for any small inconsistencies in the timeline of the story, I haven't really decided how long after Angel leaves that these letters are being wrote. They are in largely chronological order and take place some undisclosed amount of years, after his deparature. Around anywhere from three to ten... I'm settling on at the moment. But keep in mind I figure they have a pretty warped sense of time and years go by pretty quick for them.
> 
> 2) Sorry if I confused anyone last chapter, good ol' Alastor didn't actually change his name, you can consider "Vex" a sort of nickname or trade name (if that makes sense) that he's mainly called by Val, Vox, and Velvet or when he's working with them. The three mean queens figured he needed a tag that started with V to fit the group.
> 
> 3) I absolutely love all of yall screaming at me in the comments and imma try to be better at replying to them! Sorry, I have the attention span of a rodent.
> 
> 4) I lied, updates twice a week won't really be doable and I'm gonna stick to around updating every two weeks so Im not constantly beating myself up about churning out chapters faster leading to me posting even later. This story was created to be a fun project to improve my writing and I want to keep it that way and not run my inspiration dry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The page has slightly noticeable smudges of dirt in places. It's enclosed with two pressed flowers, one a blood red, another a pale pink. The stems are intertwined

Dear Angel,

Once upon a time, the concept of gardening absolutely thrilled you, didn't it? You thought the ability to nurture life up from out of the soil was fascinating in every way.

You ranted on about it once, while I brought you home from another one of your adventures. Nearly black out drunk and with only half a face full of cosmetics, you went on and on, keeping your mouth open to chase away the silence. It was a pretty sound, and now one I wish I had paid more attention to.

Sadly you were unfortunate enough to live your entire life in the big city. It's a perfect life on paper, but ruinous in most other aspects. The city, for all of it's opportunities and potential, can begin to bear down on you after only so long. I myself idolized city life when I was young before I grew up to find it was anything other than magical. City life is the culture of constantly moving, with no lull as one day rolls into the next like a crushing tide.

Yet you were still a bright eyed child once. You told me stories of your mother, a beautiful, kind woman who had expensive clothes and jewelry and anything material she could ever want. A woman who did want material. Always trapped in luxury apartments and penthouses. Golden cages, but cages nonetheless.

So incredibly fond of her, you often talked about her when alcohol soothed the pain of doing so. You said that she wasn't born in the city, just in some rural nowhere of a town where she was just another face before your father met her. He swept her off her feet and away into the smog and toil of city life with sweet words and charm. 

She wasn't happy in the city, she discovered soon enough, even less so upon figuring out your father's occupation. But by time she realized such she was already trapped with your brother on her hip. But still, you said, she tried to be cheery and motherly Arackniss and then you and Molly when the both of you came along. Young and naive and not well versed in the art of motherhood, she told the three of you stories. Stories of her home, because it was one of the few things she knew.

It enamored you, so little and still so curious about the world around you. So the three of you came up with a brilliant idea; she grew up on a farm, and since you couldn't bring her to the farm, you'd bring a little bit of farm to her. A home away from home. You sat pots of soil on every window ledge where light could reach them, got a few seed packets, and waited.

None of you were exactly sure how the whole business of growing plants worked, but you tried, eagerly nonetheless. They were watered and cared for with a sincere sense of optimism that only a child could have. 

Unsurprisingly, nothing successful ever came from it. Maybe it was the poor soil quality or just your lack of experience to blame, but your mother was gone before she had the chance to receive your gift. And so was the only person in the world who believed in you unconditionally. You and Molly and Arackniss put away childish notions such as hope and good faith with playtime toys and got on with life. 

Later you came to admire weeds and their effectiveness in life. They needed neither care nor tenderness to grow. You talked often about how you and weeds were alike in so many ways; that you were self sufficient and never let up despite how many people wanted you gone. But I beg to differ, because I want your company around.

But once, before the world succeeded in turning you bitter, you wanted a garden. I'm glad one of us was fond of gardening, even in it's briefness, because I've always despised the dirt.

It seems ironic, having grown up in fairly rural Louisiana that I'd become so obsessed with cleanliness later in life, but rest assured that I've seen and been covered in enough dirt and mud to last me a lifetime and then some. Over my childhood I grew to hate the smell of earth and its thick, cloying scent.

My mother and I lived in a small house, just the two of us, with a small garden. I don't remember very much about my father, but he was there once I'm sure, he must have been when I was still too small to help out with daily tasks. But for the most part, growing up I was the man of the house, even when I wasn't big enough to fill out a man's pair of shoes.

In our little garden we grew tomatoes, peppers, and potatoes alongside flowers herbs. Just enough for us. Wild Berry bushes dotted the area behind the shabby stone wall that surrounded the garden. I remember collecting berries from them during late summer for my mother to make desserts and jams with, or at least what leftovers hadn't been chewed up by vermin. The juices were sweet and sticky, they left my hands smelling of fruit for days after.

I spent a fair amount of time tending to the garden when my mother soon grew too fragile to do so. Weeding and tilling and planting and harvesting, when I was working the earth the garden seemed anything but little. After making breakfast I was in the garden alongside the first few rays of cold light peaking shyly over the garden wall. Shoes were often unnecessary, as mud dried on them and became impossible to remove, so I wandered about barefoot, chasing and catching the wild rabbits and chickens that wormed their way into the garden through the cracks in the crumbling stone wall. They were scrawny, but clever and most certainly capable of creating a decent stew. I worked through most of the day before heading back inside, another day complete, to have dinner. Continuing to do household chores inside and finish my studies by candlelight in the night.

Hanging garlic and herbs to dry in the kitchen before sweeping the worn floorboards while my mother busied herself making dinner was my favorite part of the day. Our tiny house filled with the smell of spices and the sounds of laughter and song. My mother swayed her hips as she sung and I spun around with my broom in a crescendo of sound and movement.

As much as I hated some aspects of it, life was simple, and sweet. I regret how ignorant I was, fleeing from it so quickly.

After taking odd jobs as I grew older, soon I was able to take up a job at a radio station, slowly climbing up the latter until I had a position I was satisfied with. The job was clean, well paying, and respectable; everything I'd ever wanted.

Soon my wage allowed me to move closer to the city but my mother, as am I, was a stubborn soul. Despite all the reasons I had supporting the idea that the city would have been better for her with its qualified doctors and plentiful shops and stores, that woman was wholly dedicated to staying in the quaint little cottage; the last thing my father left her. So she stayed.

We parted ways in a sense, and I bought a small studio apartment in the city, clean and tidy and always reeking of disinfectant. I never worried about maintaining a garden or keeping weevils out of the grain. I was independent and alone, able to focus on my own goals and ambitions. It was the future I wanted, even though I needed to remind myself of that fact multiple times a day.

I visited my mother frequently of course, ensuring she had food, a maid to care for her and good spirits. Surprisingly, she was none the worse for wear and completely content to be left alone for much of the day. She was an old woman she said, and the peace was greatly welcomed. Though, it could be argued that I was far from a rowdy child.

Whenever I came back it was a bittersweet arrival. The house was largely unchanged for the most part. My childhood drawings still littered every surface my mother was able to pin them on and my old room untouched. The floor was old and familiar under my feet, creaking just as I remembered. It was all the same, yet as I grew older, every time I visited it grew a little more foreign to me. Only I was the only one changing.

The garden, no longer needed and with no one left to upkeep it, was left abandoned. Overgrown brambles and weeds reclaimed it in silent victory. The crumbling garden wall finally collapsed, degrading into just a pile of moss covered rocks, and deer took over the garden with nothing to keep them at bay any longer.

I wasn't there when she died.

It's a fact that I'm ashamed to admit and still regret to this day. It wasn't painful I hope, a quiet and peaceful death is the least she deserved. I didn't even find out myself, hearing of it from the maid I had hired for her who panicked, contacting me upon finding her charge lifeless. If not for the maid, I fear just I long my mother's rotting corpse would have remained in the house.

I can only imagine her being alone in her last moments. It wouldn't be a far fetched idea to think that perhaps, after a lifetime of being ill, that she didn't want me to see her die. Of all the times she'd nearly passed that she waited until I left to finally leave. She was always a bleeding heart, overly considerate and compassionate even at her own risk. Maybe she did it to save her dignity and my heart I suppose, back when it was still beating and all too human.

It wasn't long after her passing that the realization finally hit me that I'd never truly experience my childhood home and garden again, at least not the way it had been. I vividly remember lounging outside with my mother on summer days when the house was to sweltering to bear. Covered in sweat and dozing amongst the presence of sunbathing stray cats in the summer heat. Then it was just me and my mother, living and eating sweet overripe wildberries under a burning and indifferent sun.

Life was simple and small then. It only encapsulated the need to tend to the garden, my mother, and my studies.

In hell, Life's different. Here I have the constant need to look over my shoulder and I bear a hefty amount of responsibility on my back. I manage the radio tower, and the hotel, but I also have my own fair share of territory to worry about.

Being a overlord also means owning a significant portion of territory and ruling over it, and the lesser demons who lived in the area. Lucifer rules all of hell, everything in the realm belongs to him. But hell is chopped into sections which individual overlords oversee, owning, in a sense, their own slice of territory. And just as I rule portions of hell under Lucifer, a handful of lesser-lords manage smaller districts under me. They split my own territory into smaller margins to control amongst themselves. It's my job to ensure major territorial scuffles between those under my watch is kept to a minimum, and that everything remains stable and safe. They are my subjects of sorts, and I must make sure they never feel too keen on replacing me.

I never have just myself to worry about. It's all a balancing act of how many tasks I can handle before I topple. Things are more complicated than house chores and gardening, not that that's a good comparison. Afterall, gardening in Hell is a deadly task as few things here grow without teeth.

There are plants, definitely, making their presence known. Winding, quickly growing with their carnivorous vines that ensnare their prey. Bramble bushes with thorns large enough to impale a man. Ever watching trees with eyes growing on every square inch of its surface. All beautiful scenery in general, I'm sure you've seen.

It's only natural for hell's wildlife to be so… violent, considering the biome in which these plants grow. Scorching with suffocating heat, something new sinners must become accustomed to. You always complained about sweat matting your fur after spending too long outside.

Precipitation is rare, usually coming in the form of black soot. And the soil is mostly ash, from a time long ago when the realm was on fire. Anything growing in hell must bend to and break to survive.

To put it simply, gardening in hell is a fool's task.

But I've found myself… nostalgic recently. I'm not exactly sure what about, but a bittersweet reminiscent has come over me. A yearning for… something. Whether of my childhood or of memories of you sitting there, utterly drunk, ranting on about stories you didn't have the cognitive ability at the moment to make coherent. But I believe that's why I began looking into gardening.

It started as a mere unusual observance of the few, scattered plants that existed in this hellscape with an itching interest. Meandering about, just observing, thinking nothing of it. The idea of growing and maintaining plants in such a barren wasteland was mad to me. At least at the time.

It wasn't until I found an unobtrusive little shop in a more decrepit and sparsely populated area on the edge of town, that my sanity began to be questioned. It's windows were filled with little knickknacks of all sorts, and was what I believed to be an antique shop. In the middle of the display, there was a single bouquet of flowers.

They were fake, I assumed at first, but still served excellently for catching my eye. Having nothing to do with my day and with brimming curiosity at my disposal, I wandered in

An elderly demon ran the shop, an imp no less. I was quite surprised to see one outside of Imp City. It must have showed on my face with the way her wrinkled face fixed itself into a look of mirth.

She asked me what I wanted and I replied nothing in particular, and that I was simply drawn in by the display. I casually asked where she had gotten such detailed faux flowers. She replied saying they were real, and continued bustling around, tidying up.

I laughed, believing that it was a joke I didn't quite understand, before stepping closer to the window to look closer. I reached out to graze my finger on the petal of a flower, a deep red one, just wanting to feel the fine fabric the surely were made out of. To my surprise, and what might have been a bit of rough handling on my part, a flower head came tumbling down into my hands.

I was surprised and maybe a tad embarrassed as the woman looked up at me with a look of irritation, looking like a deer in the headlights. She asked me if I was interested in the flowers with a tone that may have heavily implied she purely wanted me out of her shop. And nonetheless, I may have answered a bit too eagerly. She went into the back and returned with a small brown sack that she threw onto the counter before ringing me up for an offensive amount of money.

I asked exactly what she was doing, to which she replied by motioning to the bag and stating that inside were seeds. I stood for a moment, puzzled, before she asked me if I was going to pay. I did, of course, and most likely would have whether or not I took the seeds. I have more money than I care to use and it was the least I could do for her after damaging her possessions, however slight. I kindly do not think of myself as a brute.

I asked her how to grow them and she just shrugged, murmured something along the lines of "figure it out", picked up a broom, and began to sweep her little shop. When my frustration began to become tangible the old woman only looked up at me, slowly blinking and warned not to make a mess of her shop.

There was a moment in silence, with the steady rhythmic pace of her broom, and I left, the windchimes in the door singing about my leave. 

The seeds were hastily left on my desk as I busied myself with other tasks. I thought they were a scam in all honesty. Afterall, if flowers, real flowers, grew in hell then I would have known by now. They'd be a rare and sought after commodity that the rich coveted, not in the window of some back alley shop.

So I went on working, living, passing by that brown sack more than a few times a day, until it blended into the scenery of my desk so perfectly in my memory I entirely forgot of its existence. I was only made aware of it when one of the piglets, a tiny pink thing with the number six in red painted on its rear, was found rooting around on my desk, the bag near moments away from being devoured.

By the time I saved it, the bag had a hole chewed into it where I could see hundreds of tiny seeds pouring out. I swept them into a small plastic bag I had emptied out and sat it aside in a locked desk of mine, but not before plucking a few from the bunch.

I threw them in a pot with some dirt I'd gathered from outside and promptly forgot about them. Life continued, and for me, that one moment in time, barely spanning a few minutes, started a downward spiral.

It was two weeks later that I noticed sprouts pushing through the soil. I was infinitely surprised and at the same time not thinking much of it. I watered them and granted them solitude. A week later I found them wilted and bowing over from their own weight. Dead, to put it simply.

Having been brought up in a place where sun and rich mud was abundant made me blind to the fact of how much of an art gardening is. To me growing plants was simply a fact of life that happened whether I intended for it to happen or not. Weeds and flowers and crops were plentiful all the same with little effort. A few specks of overlooked birdseed could grow into towering sunflowers the next season and it wasn't uncommon for me to find entire potato plants growing from discarded peels in the compost pile. Weeds, no matter how much I fought them, always had strong numbers.

For all I knew, rearing plants wasn't a difficult practice and when I found I'd failed in the seemingly simple task of growing flowers I felt a touch… dense. Being infinitely charismatic and intelligent- if you don't mind my narcissism- being bested by plants was a mortifying ordeal.

But it was the first in a long series of humbling failures.

I tried again, with more water but that only resulted in waterlogged plants. Again, but next to a window that time, only to scorch the delicate sprouts. Making fertilizer for the barren soil out of the pigs' waste seemed to work for the first few weeks, until it didn't.

It was a matter of obsessively trading out different variables with new ones and, at times, completely rewriting the equation altogether. On top of protecting any plants from the hungry swine who just about have full run of my home.

There was no success, and hardly any change at all for quite awhile. I considered different factors and did my best but try as I might I couldn't get the seeds to relent their stubborn grip on death.

It's demeaning to tell you that it only took a few months of this cycle before my home and workspace was reduced to a mess of potted plants in various stages of decay. Vox raised an eye at me, far too use to my growing number of unusual quirks, but said nothing otherwise. Molly thought it was enduring.

It was discouraging to say the least, all the failures. But still, one day I noticed a single plant that hadn't wilted yet. It was surprising to say the least, that the plant I'd found tucked away in a dark corner of my office is the one that survived, I'd nearly forgotten about it. But there it was, defiant and obscure in its existence.

With some shame I will say I fretted over the thing for some amount of time, worrying about whether or not to move it or what the right amount of water to give it was. In the single short span of its insignificant life it saw more care from me than most, so I say my anger and shock was justified when it died.

I rid the radio tower of every potted plant in a haze of frustration until it was free from every speck of dirt. And then, when my flurry of emotions subside like the receding tide almost a month later, I started anew.

With a bag full of failures and one breakthrough, I started from scratch with a little more patience. Success wasn't immediate but it did come along eventually, slowly, with coaxing and patience.

It revealed itself some months afterwards, in the form of a growing bush that quickly outgrew a spot in my living room. I moved it outside to a balcony, watching as it's deep olive, spider veined, heart shaped leaves grew to the size of dinner plates and spilled over the edge. It sat, growing for a while before I saw the first bud appear. And then another, and another. A short while afterwards, it was blooming.

I won't lie to you and say that the flowers were a life changing sight, they were beautiful flowers, but nearly as ordinary as the ones on earth. Grand in their own right, but not extraordinary. It was the sense of completion I felt that made them all worthwhile.

The delicate blossoms were various sizes and various shades of red and pink ranging from sanguine to even pearl colored hues. Some the size of a daisy and others the size of a sunflower. They're beautiful, and exactly the sort of flower you'd hate in all of their frail glory. You'd grumble that they are too high maintenance for just a bunch of flowers. They required too much care and time and patience. That I should have saved my time by choosing a more self sufficient plant.

You'd probably say this because you didn't know any better. Because growing up, you were forced to be self sufficient. You were unwanted; like a weed. There were rarely soft gentle hands to tend to you as much as you needed to be tended to and you resent that. And I believe you have every right to. You deserve much better.

You took pride in being hard and tough, even though you never actually wanted to be strong nor bold. You wanted to be kind, and full of joy. You wanted your mother's soft hands and full heart. But you knew that's the same reason she could have never survived in the city.

You realized a lot while working towards redemption in the hotel. You learned that some issues needed tenderness to be resolved. You learned that you didn't always need to be strong. In heaven, I hope you learn even more. Up there I hope you can be as fragile as you want, a porcelain doll with cheery laughter.

For me, I'm still learning. Progress is slow, but better later than never at all I figure. I won't see heaven I dont think, and in all honesty, I'm in no true rush to. The idea of heaven and all it's perfection just never was alluring to me. If I have to grow I'd prefer it be on my own terms and for my own sake, out of spite, if you will.

I'm beginning to wonder if "growth" is another, fonder term for slipping into insanity. Chalire constantly is prasing how much I'm "growing" yet when I look in the mirror I only see a man grappling an uphill battle with madness. I own thirteen pigs, I'm regularly pulled out on downright absurd adventures by your sister, I'm friends with my worst enemy, and now I'm an obsessed gardener after years of hating dirt. And do you know what the worst thing about this is, Angel? I can hardly see a thing wrong with any of it.

So curse you Angel, curse you for whatever you've managed to do to me. Because when I'm forced to face the recent disarray my life has fallen into without you, because of you, I can only ever come to the realization that I shouldn't be left alone. And that I miss you.

Love, a man who might be more human than he cares to admit, Alastor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alot of other people have the much more realistic headcanon of Al living near a louisiana bayou but I say you'll have to pry my cottagecore deerboi from my cold, dead hands.
> 
> Any have this late chapter that I rewrote three times and still hate, featuring our beloved long suffering radio demon gaining a hobby. Criticism is welcome and please comment about any mistakes or errors!
> 
> 3/7/20 edit: I'll be taking a quick hiatus for the next month due to mental health reasons, I'll be back with chapters ready to go by 4/7/20. I'm so sorry guys
> 
> 4/6/20 edit: i'll be extending this hiatus until 4/25/20, although i'll probably be back sooner. Sorry again guys, mental heath's a bitch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a piece of poetry, crumpled at the bottom of Alastor's trash bin. It's been scribbled over and balled up, but if you try you can start to see what has been written there...

Angel, what do you think a perfect world would look like? In a place where "perfect" could even exist as a tangible concept, I mean.

Well I know that in this imaginary, ideal, world that hell and heaven wouldn't exist. In a perfect world perhaps no one would be forced to suffer death in order for any type of afterlife to exist in the first place.

But there I doubt we would have ever met.

Because it was in Hell, and the first time I'd ever stepped foot into the "Happy" Hotel, that I first met you. And how ignorantly unaware were we that night, while fate's grand scheme to force us together fell in place perfectly.

It's odd, looking back now, how honestly we despised each other at first- and for no true reason at all. Someone could say it was because we were polar opposites, but the phrase "opposites attract" existed in blind opposition to that. But I guess no one had taught us that fact, as we went about spitting at each other purely for the sake of hating someone who wasn't a reflection of ourselves.

If we had met in this perfect world, then perhaps we would have understood that being different from each other didn't automatically mean we needed to hate each other by default. 

In a perfect world maybe we could have started out as friends, and had so much more time together.

I remember how you used the word perfect to describe nearly anything that pleased you. As if by simply gaining your favor it was worthy of having its flaws disregarded. Whether with clothes or cosmetics or my food, you threw around the term with reckless abandon. But for all your carelessness and joking narcissism, I don't believe it's a word you ever thought would have been used to describe you.

A worrying number of sinners seem to all but worship you, tacting the word onto your image as if it was a nametag. They think that you became some sort of impeccable, otherworldly being in order to have the mighty privilege of getting dragged off to Heaven. Assured in their false belief that you were simply too perfect to stay here.

They say it as if there were some grand achievement in the fact that you had been snatched away from me so suddenly.

Everyone seemed so focused on the fact that you were in a better place that they ignored the sheer unwillingness you stood with when you were forced to leave. That you scratched and screamed that you weren't ready as angels carted you away with their indifferent smiles and heavenly light. Like you were better off in some faraway place standed from friends and family and everything familiar.

But in the end the deed is done and the fact is that I'll never see you again. Soon your memories will fade and blur and my face and those of others you've met in Hell will be replaced with the passing centuries you spend in Heaven, unthreatened by exterminations. And even worse is that the same will happen to me.

If I survive long enough in Hell soon my memory will rot and warp and new memories will crowd out old ones until I know your name no more personably than any sinner on the street. This is a fact, and this frightens me.

But all they fail to mention any of this, too concerned with your perceived perfection.

Like they don't realize that the wonderful creature you are will soon slip from our collective memory altogether, becoming a blank space in between recollections. As if memories had with you were not that important to begin with.

And I know how long and how terribly some sinners have rotted in hell, becoming shells of their former selves and what they stood for and I know that's not what you would've wanted. And I'm not saying that I could even for a moment begin to understand what happens in your head, but I think you'd prefer to be here. With me.

Like the first time we ever interacted outside of the hotel, which of course was not not by our own free will. Charlie kicked us out into the city and gave me the task of supervising you, hoping that we'd get along better in a natural environment.

If I was to turn a long story short, her idea was horribly planned. That night you dragged me from clubs to bars to shabby opium houses high on your newly given freedom. Black out drunk after getting the two of us kicked out of the third establishment that night you ranted to me in some filthy back alley. All the things you had wanted to do when you were alive but never had the courage to.

Half of it was illegible, senseless rambling and drunken gibberish focused on communicating emotions over concepts. And I understood well enough. Understood the regret and sorrow and anger.

And I remember vividly how your voice became soft and trembling, interspersed with hiccups as you mourned the loss of the life you should have lived.

You were there beside me that night. Weird and wonderful and flawed and not going anywhere. We trotted around hell and just about every time I thought I had gotten rid of you, there you were just around the corner. Perfectly fine and too deeply intoxicated to truly understand how hard I was trying to shake you.

You gave me advice that night, like a well aged mentor as if I wasn't decades older than you. It was unwanted and unneeded but you didn't require my permission in order to share it. 

It ranged in profounity from observing the concept of mortality as it applies to humans to your take on why people still argued whether cats or dogs were better when pigs were clearly superior. And despite common sense, I listened.

You spoke with a type of conviction that could convince anyone you had it all figured out. Like you'd been around for eons watching and seeing patterns in human behavior no one quite cares to learn from. 

Maybe it was the alcohol I had buzzing in my own system that made me latch onto your words and made me accept, even if only for a drunken moment, that maybe there are others in this world who are worth my time. And that maybe you were one of them.

And when I think of the word perfect, I begin to wonder exactly however someone could bend its definition to apply to you. If you were to add a few letters then I believe it would fit you. Imperfect.

Yes, that would do well to define you and your loud, reckless personality. I can't think of a better way to describe you and the constant trouble you got in.

It's a shame that in the frantic shuffle to preserve your memory so many forgot how beautifully flawed you were. You were self destructive, judgmental, and rude to start, and I can comfortably say that you were put in Hell for a reason. You've changed since then, and I'm sure that these are parts of yourself you'd rather put behind yourself, but I'd like to remember them. I'd like to remember as much of you as I can, to keep you vivid in memory as long as possible.

Even in your late years with me, well down your path to redemption, you still had quirks. You swore like a sailor and had few qualms about participating in turf wars.

It's all fun and games, you used to say as Cherri snuck you out of the hotel to whisk you into yet another battle, after all no one dies in turf war.

You decided that since sinners in hell could always regenerate from injuries that no harm was done by the occasional scuffle.

A week later while still suffering from a shattered leg that hadn't healed yet you rethought your stance on turf wars before telling me that maybe they were more harmful than you initially took them for.

Your absence reminded me that I'm still very much human and in too many regards. The heart I didn't believe myself to have didn't take your departure lightly.

It feels wrong for you not to be here. So wrong that for months your room in the hotel sat untouched because no one could do the heavy task that was entering it. That every time I tried all I could do was sink down onto your bed and let myself be assaulted by fond memories.

I remember that you kept a journal on the desk in your room to write to your mother in. You said you wanted to give it to her when you got to heaven.

When I asked why all the pages in it were blank you replied that you wanted it to be perfect, and that you start writing in it when you were finally the person she would have wanted you to be.

You're the only person I believe I've ever looked up to. A loudmouthed whore. And I say that with a tone of absolute endearment.

And now that you aren't here everyone looks at me with questioning, pitying eyes as if to ask me what am I going to do now. And I find myself asking the exact same question. I doubt that I was the closest person to you and I'm sure there are plenty of others who knew you better. But I do think you'd be better off here.

Because when I realized that you were truly gone, gone for good, I couldn't help but remember all the time you spent glued to my side. And how you fit there- perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I end my hiatus with a underwhelming, short, shitty chapter. Sorry guys I originally left due to lack of motivation and creativity but I extended my leave cuz stress and online classes have been kicking my ass.
> 
> This is essentially just a filler chapter cuz with all that's happening rn my creative battery is running low. So please leave questions and ideas for future chapters in the comments! This story is sorta centered around how the hazbin hotel world would change if Angel got redeemed, from Alastor's point of view. Covering topics like what would happen to Fat Nuggets with Angel gone and how Molly would cope (previous chapters).
> 
> So ask me any world building questions and I'll try to answer them in the story!


End file.
